


Winter Is Here

by faithisbrokenn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forge Sex, Gendry and Jon are totally gonna be bros, I will protect Sandor Clegane with my life, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Two man Arya Stark fan club, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2018-12-19 05:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11891058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithisbrokenn/pseuds/faithisbrokenn
Summary: Gendry returns to Winterfell with Jon to prepare for the oncoming war. Memories come to life, enemies become allies, and blood means absolutely nothing and everything all at once.





	1. Warrior's Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of one shots, based on the idea that Jon went to Winterfell after he left the wall, with the Suicide Squad in tow. It's mostly centered around Gendry and Arya, but other characters will make appearances as well. UPDATE: I updated the title so that it referred to the entirety of the series, not just the first title. I noticed that this was a phrase I've been repeating, so I figured I should use it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry felt his breathing stop as his gaze zeroed in on the small sword held by the person he had thought was a page. A slender Braavosi blade, small even by their standards, held with a steady hand to the Hound’s stomach.
> 
> Even with the sword, even with Winterfell rising around them and taunting him with her ghost, nothing prepared him for when she yanked back her hood to show her face.
> 
> Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This operates under the assumption that Arya was never talked about by Jon or anyone else, so Gendry has no idea she is still alive.

Snow had rather quickly lost its charms for Gendry.  
  
At first, it had been undeniably beautiful. Clean and bright and bringing a silence to the world that was a balm to him after the constant clamor of the Street of Steel. He’d said as much to the King as they met the first snowfall while they sailed just north of the Fingers. Jon had snorted. “This isn’t snow, Gendry. This is a mother’s kiss.”  
  
Gendry wished he had listened to that warning by the time they got to Eastwatch. That’s when the snow had ceased being beautiful and had become a living, breathing, deadly thing. A wolf with icy teeth, snarling and snapping at their clothes, ripping at any exposed skin. A gust of wind could knock the breath out of a man, and breathing it back in felt like inhaling frozen daggers. And that had been before the white walkers.  
  
When Jon had told him to run to Eastwatch, he had almost been relieved. Surely he couldn’t fight _that._ Still, another part of him rebelled. Not because he was a hero (he wasn’t); not to go out in a blaze of glory (it was too fucking cold for that); but because he didn’t want to leave a Stark behind.  
  
Not again.  
  
Gendry winced at the thought, then quickly rolled his shoulder, in case anyone had saw and wondered. A swift look around told him no one had. Their small group rode to Winterfell, wight in tow, heads down, dreading the confrontation that Jon felt was sure to come. Daenerys had offered to come as well, but Jon had asked her to wait a few more days. “We’ll want them to see you, and the dragons, but they deserve to hear it from me. To hear from their king why they’re kneeling so soon after finding their feet.”  
  
Gendry had thought he looked rather sad when he spoke, but when he asked about it later, Jon had only shaken his head. “I only worry what my family will think.”  
  
Gendry was brought back to the present by shouting in the distance. He looked up sharply, hand moving to the hammer strapped to his saddle, when he felt a strong grip wrap around his wrist.  
  
“No, son,” Lord Davos murmured, “it’s only the watchmen. Look.”  
  
Gendry squinted, trying to see past the blinding light reflected off the snow. Yes, there it was. Winterfell.  
  
The sight knocked the breath out of him faster than any blow ever had, and his heart and stomach clenched tightly. He’d been prepared for that. Breathing through the initial onslaught, he forced himself to look, really look, at the keep. At _her_ home.  
  
Signs of recent battle still lingered, and workman milled around busily, but it didn’t look as bad as he had been expecting. Judging by the noises of surprise from Jon and his companions, it had improved a lot since the last time they’d been there. “Your sister works fast,” Tormund grunted.  
  
A ghost of a smile flitted across Jon’s face, bringing a hint of warmth to his otherwise stony expression. “Yes. She’s well suited to be the Lady here.”  
  
Gendry barely had time to wonder at the odd note in his voice before a howl tore through the cold air, and a white blur bolted out of the keep towards them. He scrabbled to get a firm grip on the reins to stop his horse from panicking, and watched Jon slide off his horse and onto his knees, arms open, the first true smile the smith had ever seen from him spreading across his face. “Seven hells, is that a…?”  
  
Direwolf. Gendry had of course heard the stories. _She_ had told him many of them herself. But hearing was one thing. Seeing a pure white wolf with brilliant red eyes the size of a large pony was quite another.  
  
Strangely, seeing the wolf had been yet another gut punch. Maybe it was the wildness of the creature, maybe it was how at home it looked in the shadow of the keep, or maybe it was just that seeing the wolf had reminded him of the night she had told him the story of how her brothers had found them. Reminded him of the way her voice shook when she told him how she chased Nymeria away, the way her tiny fists clenched with the effort of holding back tears she refused to admit were there.  
  
Gendry pulled his eyes away from the wolf to look back at the keep. To look at its cold, gray walls, to feel its steady, ancient presence. The blood-red leaves of what he could tell was a massive weirwood that peeked above the walls further back in the keep. Yes. He could see her here. The ancient pride, the wild, old strength that permeated the grounds. Yes, a daughter of wolves would have certainly belonged to this place, more than she had ever belonged to King’s Landing, to Harrenhal, to the Brotherhood.  
  
He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths, pushing air around the knot in his chest. He knew he would be bombarded with memories when he came, knew he would not be able to see her home without seeing her face. Without reliving the hurt look she gave him when he’d called her “m’lady” for the last time. The rage in her eyes as she fought the men who had sold him, even when he’d hurt her. But he would not let it consume him. He’d come back to repay what he could never stop owing the Stark family, owing _her._ He’d come to honor her fierce love of her home, her loyalty to her family. He would not turn back now.  
  
Jon finally rose from the ground, took the reins of his horse, and continued to lead them through the winter town into Winterfell. Gendry heard Davos murmur to him quietly and Jon nodded. “The winter town is growing day by day.”  
  
“Well, winter is here.”  
  
The gate to the main keep opened and he looked up to see a tall, slender woman with brilliant red hair standing at the entrance. She was flanked on either side by a tall figure in full armor, and one smaller figure in a dark, hooded cloak. A guard and a page, he guessed, though he was startled when he came closer and realized the guard was a woman. He heard Tormund sigh lustily and barked out a laugh. So this was Brienne of Tarth. Yes, he could see why Tormund would be so taken with her.  
  
Jon came to a slow halt in front of the red-haired woman. “Sansa.”  
  
So this was the Lady Sansa Stark, the twice-married beauty that had taken back her home with blood and steel. She was rumored to have set her lord husbands’ own dogs on him in revenge for the cruelty she’d endured at his hands. He took a long look at her, but could see no similarity. She was beautiful, and her eyes were kind, but she seemed made of ice and steel. Nothing of the fire and fury that…  
  
Gendry shook his head sharply, halting those thoughts in place. He focused on the Lady of Winterfell instead. “Welcome home, your Grace.”  
  
There was a long, awkward pause following the coldness of her greeting, and then suddenly, the siblings were both grinning, then laughing, then pulling each other into a warm embrace. “Welcome home, Jon,” he heard the lady murmur, though he could not hear Jon’s response, only its’ low, warm timbre.  
  
Then Sansa pulled away and looked over the rest of them. “You seem to have gained a few men.”  
  
A few things happened then rather quickly. The men all slid off of their horses to greet the Lady of Winterfell, Brienne ripped her sword out of its sheath with a rather savage oath, the Hound pushed his way past the rest of them toward Sansa, and both Brienne and the small figure on the other side of Sansa blocked him with their blades. Gendry felt his breathing stop as his gaze zeroed in on the small sword held by the person he had thought was a page. A slender Braavosi blade, small even by their standards, held with a steady hand to the Hound’s stomach.  
  
“Needle,” he breathed.  
  
Clegane looked down at the sword and barked a harsh laugh. “I thought we figured out you can’t kill me with that, girl.”  
  
Even with the sword, even with Winterfell rising around them and taunting him with her ghost, nothing prepared him for when she yanked back her hood to show her face.  
  
Arya.  
  
Gendry’s knuckles whitened on his reins. Biting down on his lip so hard he drew blood, he moved so that the horse was between the two of them, blocking him from her view, but still allowing him to watch.  
  
He watched Jon as he took a step forward, concerned, only to stop when Sansa held up a slender hand. Watched Sansa, her face frozen in shock as she stared at the Hound. Watched Arya as she glanced at her sister, then grinned fiercely up at Clegane. “I may have learned a trick or two since then.”  
  
Gendry’s grip tightened so that he felt his knuckles popping. But he stayed silent. And watched.  
  
Watched as Sansa laid slightly trembling hands on both her sister and Brienne, motioning for them to lower their swords. She stared hard at Clegane as though waiting for something.  
  
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. “So the little bird made it out of her cage.”  
  
Sansa’s voice shook with some strange emotion as she answered. “I think you’ll find the little bird grew some claws as well.”  
  
The Hound grunted. He shifted on his feet, then swiftly drew his sword. Before any of them could react (except, he thought with a painful twist, Arya, but she only watched with a strange smile on her mouth) he knelt and held out the sword to her.  
  
“I am still no knight, little bird. I’ll never learn to dance their dances, or sing their sweet little songs. But if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life protecting you as payment for my failure at King’s Landing.”  
  
Gendry looked around at the rest of the stunned and confused faces, glad he wasn’t the only one. Only Beric seemed unsurprised, with a small, sad smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Looking back at Sansa, he saw her face was a mask, though her eyes glimmered with what he thought might be tears. After a long moment, she finally spoke. “You need not feel as though you are in my debt. A Hound can only do so much to protect a little bird from the Lions. And I chose not to leave with you, as I recall.”

Clegane raised his eyes from the hilt of his sword, his expression almost gentle. “A choice no one could blame you for, my Lady. Taking a chance with a half-savage dog or the mercy of a conquering king. It was an impossible choice.”

He saw that the Lady trembled slightly. “And if you were a half-savage dog then, what are you now?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer and kinder than Gendry would have ever believed. “Only a man, asking for the privilege to serve and protect the only good and pure thing he knows in the world.”

Sansa let out a sudden, sharp breath, as though his words had pushed it out of her. “Then rise, Sandor Clegane, and be my champion and protector, for this day, and for all the days to come.”

Clegane rose slowly to his feet and spoke gruffly. “I’ll take no knights vows, little bird."

She smiled at that. “This is the North, my Lord. You’ll find that knights here are few and far between. Besides,” she added with a cynical twist to her mouth, “I think I’ve had enough of knights.”

Clegane nodded once and moved with uncharacteristic deference to stand behind the Lady of Winterfell, taking Lady Brienne’s place. Gendry had the distinct impression that he planned to stay there until the world itself came crashing down.

Jon cleared his throat, moving the focus away from them, and Sansa seemed to returned to herself. “Well, no need to stand out in the snow. Come in, all of you. There’s a fire in the Great Hall for you to warm yourselves, and a hot meal is being prepared.”

She turned and lead the group inside, her family following close behind her. Gendry saw Jon pause and touch Arya’s shoulder, and her answering smile brilliant as she looked up at him. “Still have your Needle?” he asked, his voice warm.

Arya’s smile grew even wider, and suddenly they were both laughing as she jumped into his arms. Laughing, and both rubbing furiously at their eyes in a way so identical that Gendry couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen their similarity before this.

There was a roaring in his ears that finally made itself heard, and that was growing ever louder. As cold and hungry as he was he could not go into the hall with them. She’d see him, she’d recognize him, and then… he didn’t know. Hug him? Hit him? Ignore him? He didn’t know. And he couldn’t deal with the uncertainty.

He reached out blindly and grabbed what turned out to be Tormund’s arm, ignoring the glare the wildling leveled at him. “The smithy? Where is it?” he demanded harshly.

Tormund pointed wordlessly, frowning at his tone, but Gendry didn’t care. He stalked away from the group, ignoring Davos when he called out to him. It was too much, all at once. His head was spinning, and he had to get back to what he knew.

* * *

Finding something to work on at the smithy hadn’t been hard. They didn’t have a master smith at Winterfell anymore, just a handful of apprentices and those who had picked up the skill somewhere in their lifetime. The man who he supposed was in charge almost by default had taken one look at Gendry with his heavy arms and shoulders and hands covered in burns and pointed him to the weapons to be repaired. “You ever done this work, boy?” the man had asked in the strange, rough burr of the North.

Gendry had nodded, eyes fixed on the steel and iron that glimmered enticingly. “Yes. Master Mott had just gotten me started on reworking Valyrian steel before…” But there, he couldn’t think of that either, because that was another painful memory wrapped in her.

The man had just nodded. “Good. That might be helpful later. But for now, get to work.”

Gendry had picked up a sword had broken completely in half. He’d have to completely rework it to be sure it wouldn’t just crack again in the same place. It would be difficult, hot, and involve far too much sweating and cursing. His mouth had pulled into a grin that was more teeth than smile. Good.

Which was how he found himself, hours later after everyone else in the smithy had left, hammering away at the steel that he’d melted and pushed and stretched and pulled back into place to make a sword he knew wouldn’t shatter if someone looked at it wrong. He had a brief moment a few hours before where he mused over the fact that he’d wanted to come North to fight, not to go back to smithing. But he had stopped that line of thought with a savage blow to the steel that almost forced him to start all over again. For then he was thinking about why he’d wanted to fight for Jon in the first place, and that was what he’d came to the smithy to escape.

Now, though, it was harder to control his thoughts. He quenched the sword with a hiss of water and steam, and pulled off his apron, wiping at the sweat that dripped stinging into his eyes. He looked around the smithy restlessly, hoping to find something else to work on. He could feel his sweat cooling rapidly on his skin as the other fires in the smithy had died and the cold night air seeped in, and the shakiness in his hands that signaled louder than words that he needed food, drink, and sleep. Still, he couldn’t shake the vice that clenched around his stomach. The vice that could only be lifted by pushing his body until his arms and shoulders and back burned and his hands felt leaden. He picked up a breastplate that had a few dents in it that would make it difficult to put on, sat down at a bench, and began to take a mallet to the metal.

“You’ll ruin it if you work in this state, you know.”

Almost as if to prove the point, her voice startled him so badly that he cursed and smashed into the metal much harder than he meant to, denting it even more severely. He dropped the mallet and shoved away from the bench, moving to the forge to stare into the coals. He could feel her gaze burning into his back, burning a question and demanding an answer, but he couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t give her answers when he didn’t even have them himself.

Still, he knew she wouldn’t just leave. If he knew one thing about Arya Stark, he knew that she was the most stubborn person he’d ever met.

Gendry took a deep breath and a tight grip of his emotions and turned around to face her. She was standing just inside the doorframe, where she’d hung a lantern he assumed she brought from the castle. She wore only her wool breeches, leather jerkin, and soft boots that had made it possible for her to steal in so silently. In each hand she held what looked like a bowl of steaming hot stew, leftovers from what their party had been fed earlier. He couldn’t help but frown slightly. “Why aren’t you wearing a cloak?”

The question startled a laugh out of her, and he gripped his emotions even tighter, afraid of what would happen if they broke from him. “I came straight from the kitchens. It’s hotter in there than it is in here. I wasn’t outside long. Here. I… I brought you something to eat.”

Gendry didn’t move. Arya didn’t seem bothered by his silence; if anything, she took it to mean she could come in. She stepped up to where he’d been sitting at his workbench and put the bowls down on them, nudging the breastplate over until there was enough room for both of them.

She wanted to sit. And eat. With him.

Like she hadn’t been dead for  _ years. _

It burst out of him before he could help it. “Where the fuck have you  _ been _ ?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him and calmly ate a spoonful of stew. After a long moment (where he definitely did not get mesmerized by the movement of her long, graceful throat as she swallowed, because that would be insane) she answered. “You’re one to talk. Davos said you disappeared after he rescued you from the Red Bitch. And I would guess both of our stories are long enough without having to tell him on an empty stomach,” she added, motioning to the second bowl of stew directly across from her, in front of him.

Gendry sat down heavily, jostling the stew. He hadn’t meant to, but he wasn’t sure his legs could hold him up any longer. He forced down a few spoonfuls of the stew, and as the heat spread through his stomach, and he realized how hungry he was, he shoveled down the rest in record time. When he chanced to glance up at Arya again, she was watching him, amused. But he noted hers was gone, too.

He straightened and wiped is mouth on his apron, and leaned back to look at her. Finally, in the quiet and heat of the forge, he was able to figure out what he was feeling, and really see how much of a mess he actually was. Relief, guilt, anger, and joy all mixed together inside of him in such a way as to make him want to jump out of his skin. Curiousity, too, to know where she’d been, and how she came back looking so… deadly.

For Arya had always been fierce, but her size, age, and gender had all worked against any real intimidation factor she may have had. She had been willing, even eager, to fly into any fight with the fury of a wildcat, but Gendry had always been able to hold her back. Now, though she was still small, though she was still a woman (aye, and here was another problem: she was now a  _ woman _ , where she’d always been a girl, and the difference made him jumpy) he somehow doubted he’d be able to stop her. She exuded a quiet competence, from her silent tread, her ease with her weaponry (he had seen another dagger, Valyrian from the looks of it, tucked into her belt at her back), her unapologetic use of mens garb, and her steady gray eyes that seemed to see everything.

She had changed. There was no way around it. And while some of the changes saddened him, they also made him inordinately happy. She’d finally learned, as she’d fought tooth and nail to do in the time he’d known her, to defend herself. And she’d found her way home.

Arya shifted slightly under his scrutiny, and even that hint of discomfort was endearing. So, she could still be embarrassed. “Okay. We’ve eaten. So. Where have you been?”

Her eyes met his briefly as skipped away. “Braavos.”

Gendry wasn’t sure what answer he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. When he didn’t respond immediately, she blurted out, “I haven’t been home long. In Westeros. I only came back a few months ago… I was at the Twins for a few days.” He saw her shift slightly, then continue, “I was on my way to King’s Landing when I ran into Hot Pie. He told me Jon was the King in the North. So I turned around and came home.”

Gendry couldn’t help the grin that split his face. “Hot Pie? He’s alive?”

Her answering grin was brilliant. “Yeah, can you believe it? He’s baking at the Inn at the Crossroads. His pies are delicious. I guess kings come and go, but people always need someone to make the food.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair, suddenly feeling more relaxed than he had in ages. Hot Pie, alive and baking, Arya alive and at Winterfell. It was as if the world had suddenly remembered how to be kind, even for a moment. Looking her over, though, his smile dropped away slowly. For she had learned her deadliness somewhere, and he suspected that lesson had  _ not _ been kind. As if sensing his line of thought, her smile dropped too, and she looked away from him.

He kept his voice low, not wanting to push her or make her uncomfortable. “Arya, why were you in Braavos? What brought you back?”

Her face went very carefully blank. It was almost uncomfortable to look at, to see her animated face go flat.  _ But maybe this is who she is now, _ a tiny voice whispered.  _ She’s changed in ways you don’t even know, yet. _

He flinched, and looked away to hide it. It was quiet, and he almost thought she wouldn’t answer when she finally spoke in a soft, almost regretful tone. “Don’t ask me that. Not yet.”

He looked at her, startled. If anything, he had expected her to lie. The wry smile on her face told him she almost had. “If I lied, you’d believe me,” she said with such confidence that he knew he would. “And… I don’t want to lie. Not to you. So don’t ask me that today. Maybe someday… but not now.”

Gendry nodded slowly. He could accept that. He stood and took both of their bowls over to a small basin of snow-melt the smithy used for handwashing. He swirled the bowls around in it for a moment, his mind seeming to swirl with it. He heard her stand, pace. He got the feeling he only heard it because she didn’t want to startle him with quiet movements. “So, where did you go?” she finally asked.

He set the bowls down on the workbench and opened the door briefly to dump the basin and scoop more snow into it to melt. Setting it near the forge, he turned to face her, leaning back against a table. “King’s Landing.”

Arya looked up at him sharply. “But the queen…”

“Already thought I was dead, thanks to you. And Davos was right, it’s easier to hide in plain sight than on the road and on the run. I worked as a blacksmith at the Street of Steel. Goldcloaks patrolled every day, and no one ever looked at me twice.”

“How did you even make yourself go back?” she asked, staring at him.

He smiled softly. “Well, I remembered something a friend told me. ‘Fear cuts deeper than swords.’”

Her eyes widened, and he saw a rush of some emotion, before her face slammed shut again like a steel trap, hiding every thought. She turned away, looking at the swords that lined the walls, as though nothing had happened.

But clearly, something had.

Gendry took a step towards her. He watched her shift her weight slightly in a movement that was clearly instinctual at this point, compensating for where he was in the room, and how she’d have to move if a fight broke out. His heart ached, but he let no pity into his expression. He knew she’d have none of it. “Arya…”

She cocked her head slightly, still facing the weapons rack, but he saw a gleam of gray as her eyes slid to look at him in the corners. He took a deep breath, and then spoke what he’d thought every time he’d thought of her in the past few years. “Arya, I’m so sorry.”

She went rigid. He clenched his fists for a moment before continuing. “I mean… I’m sorry I left you for the Brotherhood. Not just because I know now they were only going to sell me. But I never should have left you to begin with. I should have listened to you when you told me I could come with you. I should have believed you. But I didn’t, because I was too afraid that once you were home, once we no longer needed each other to survive, I would just go back to being a bastard blacksmith and you would return to where you belonged, as a Princess of the North.”

She whirled on him, eyes flashing like knives. “I’m not a fucking  _ lady--- _ ”

Gendry laughed and moved forward to put his hands on her shoulders. “Calm down, Arya, believe me, I know.” He relaxed his grip slightly, took a quick step back. Touching her had a strange effect on his skin. “And I should have known then. But I was still… well, I wasn’t a child, but I wasn’t a man, either. So… I’m sorry.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him curiously. “It’s okay. If you had stayed with me, I might never have gone to Braavos, never become… well, I might never have learned to defend myself. So it worked out, I think, in the end. But… why did you come North?”

Gendry’s mouth went dry. He fought to keep his voice steady as he answered with what was technically the truth. “Lord Davos asked me to.”

Arya rolled her eyes, and he knew she didn’t buy it. “Okay, fine. But they must have told you what they were facing. You were safe in King’s Landing, certainly more comfortable than freezing your balls off north of the Wall. Why leave?”

He shrugged one shoulder, looking anywhere but her. “I was tired of making swords for fucking Lannisters. Cersei is getting crazier by the day, she just blew up the Sept of Baelor, so you can’t really say it’s safe in King’s Landing. And the army of the dead aren’t going to stop at the Wall, so you can’t really say anywhere was safe. I wanted to be useful.”

“And that’s it?” she asked sharply.

Abruptly, he was irritated. Why was she pushing this so hard? He scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, a low growl escaping his throat. “Fucking hell, Arya, what do you want? You want me to say that I’ve hated myself every day since I heard the Hound took you? That I wanted to serve your family to make up for that? That I hoped that somehow, some way, if I spent every day of the rest of my life protecting and serving your family, that maybe in some small way it might make up for my failure to protect you?”

She bared her teeth as she snarled out, “I don’t need your fucking protection---”

“I KNOW THAT, ARYA,” he roared, his temper fraying quickly. She stepped back, not afraid, but clearly startled. He took a step back from her and leaned against the armor bench, forcing calming breaths through his nose. “I know you don’t need me,” he added quietly. “I know you’re strong and capable and fierce, and that you never needed any of us.” The words hurt to admit. “But I still should have stayed with you. I should have had your back. Even if everything worked out in the end, I still never should have left you to be alone.”

He didn’t look back up at her, and instead picked up a hammer, turning it over and over in his hands. Examined the metal head, the scarred iron, the equally scarred skin of his hands.  _ Blacksmith’s hands _ , he thought with a snort, remembering what Arya had told him her septa said of her.  _ Maybe she should have met me and seen my hands. Arya is delicate in comparison. _

As soon as he thought that, a pale, slender hand came into his vision and covered his own. He looked up to see Arya watching him intently, no hint of hesitation in her face or voice as she spoke. “I did need you. I needed all of them, but especially you. You… I was reckless.” She grinned when he snorted.  _ That’s an understatement. _ “I was never afraid to risk my own life, or at least it didn’t occur to me to be afraid. You grounded me. Honestly, you’re probably the only reason I’m still alive. First keeping my gender and identity a secret, then forcing me to think and not rush head first into anything. You don’t owe my family or I anything. You paid your debt a long time ago.”

Gendry didn’t, couldn’t speak. He stared at her and then down at the hand on his. She shifted and made to pull away, and before he could think about it he twisted his hand under her grip and held onto her. He didn’t look at her as he gently rubbed his thumb across the skin of her knuckles. Knuckles now rough and scarred with years of fighting. He felt the callouses on her palms, similar yet different than his, callouses that had grown from holding a sword rather than a hammer. “You told me Septa Mordane said you had blacksmiths’ hands.”

He felt her flinch and start to pull away, but he held his grip and looked up to meet her gaze. “You don’t. I would know. You have warrior hands.”

Arya held his eyes with hers, and he felt something surge between them. His heart clenched in his chest, but it felt different than before. Like something was trying to burst out of him. She moved closer to him until their hands joined in front of them was the only thing separating them. Separating and joining. His head felt foggy, clouded by her nearness. By the scent of salt and smoke that rose from her skin, the way her eyes shone like burnished silver. “Arya…”

He could see she, too, was affected by… whatever this was. Could feel her breath coming in short bursts, tickling the skin on his bare chest. Her eyes skated over his face and then down, down to stare at his shoulders, collarbone, chest… and lower, to where his pants hung low on his hips, pushed there by the swing and flex of his work at the forge. The one hand she had free barely brushed the fine line of hair that ran down his stomach and disappeared into his trousers. He inhaled sharply, flexing against her touch. Her eyes darted back up, and her tongue wet her lips. “Gendry?”

It was a question and a plea and something else he didn’t understand, but whatever it was, it broke him. He surged forward, dropping the hammer on the table beside them and gripping her hips tightly, pulling her roughly into his chest as his lips slammed down to cover hers. And if he’d expected her to be meek and accepting like the few other women he’d known, he was wonderfully mistaken when she pushed up into him, standing on her toes to rake her nails through his hair, her mouth opening under his and tongue pushing out to battle for dominance.

Arya was as fierce at kissing as she was at fighting, but here, Gendry had the advantage, for he was taller and stronger, and only here was he not willing to submit to whatever his lady wanted. He may not feel like an equal anywhere else in her life, but here he knew he could make her feel like no little lordling ever could. He tightened one hand on her hip, fingers digging into skin revealed as her jerkin rode up, and reached one hand up to make a fist in the hair at the nape of her neck. She went still for just a moment, and fear flashed through him, fear that he was overstepping, fear she might not want this, when she bit his lip, hard, and let out a shuddering whimper.

All fear, all thought flew out of his mind as he crushed her into him as though he wanted to mold her into his very bones. He was moving without thought until her back crashed into the table and her mouth broke away with a gasp. Unable to tear his lips from her, he kissed and licked and nibbled down her jaw to a soft spot below her ear, murmuring apologies, reveling in the way she shuddered against him. Suddenly she jumped, using his body as leverage, to sit on the table and wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him into her heat, ripping a groan from somewhere deep in his chest.

Arya’s nails left lines of fire in his skin as they dragged from his hair down his shoulders, scraping and clawing at the skin of his back. His sweat stung where her nails had been, but it was a pleasant burn, any pain drowned out by the feel of her against him. The fire under his skin blazed until surely, surely they would both burn to ashes in the heat of it. People weren’t meant to endure this pleasure that was almost pain, this heat like a forest fire. Her lips found his collarbone just as his found the base of her neck, teeth and tongue scraping across salty skin in a way that had them both shuddering and shaking into each other. Her nails flicked across his nipples, and his hips stuttered and ground into her in response, drawing out a long, low moan from her.

One brief moment of clarity flashed like lightning through Gendry’s mind, and he pulled his mouth away from her throat, heat spiking in his stomach when she whimpered in protest. “Arya, we can’t… you can’t....”

She reared her head back to look at him, pinning him in place with fiery eyes. “Do you want me?”

The question cut through any pretenses he could build up, and he could only nod, as if his hardness pressed against her stomach wasn’t answer enough. Her lips curled in a wolfish smile. “Then we can.”

And she wrapped strong fingers around his neck and pulled him back down to her in a savage kiss of teeth and tongue and spit, nothing refined or  _ lady-like  _ about it. His resistance, which hadn’t been strong to begin with, crumbled. His fingers, so dexterous and nimble at the forge, fumbled on the laces of her jerkin until he gave a savage yank, and she let out a sharp laugh as the laces tore the leather and finally came free. He didn’t pause as he pushed it off her shoulders and dragged her wool undershirt to the side, desperate to get his mouth on her skin. She sighed and arched into him as his tongue dragged along her collarbone, shuddered as his teeth nipped and scraped the tender skin. The fire blazed higher, and suddenly they were both frantically tugging at her weapons belt, pulling it off, and she had barely placed it on the table beside them when he was tugging her shirt up and over her head.

She hissed as the rapidly cooling air hit her overheated skin, slick with his sweat and hers, and she tugged him back to her. His hands found her breasts, small, hard, perfect, and he stared at them, mesmerised as he massaged and squeezed, thumbs flicking over pebbled nipples. She laughed breathlessly, and he looked up at her questioningly. “Just like a man,” she whispered, voice unsteady, “one look at a pair of tits and---oh!”

For he had just wrapped his lips around one of her nipples, teeth dragging and pulling, tongue flicking and swirling across its’ peak. Arya writhed against him, gasps and whimpers and pleas pouring from her lips, somehow making Gendry even harder. He ground his length into her heat, desperate for some friction, and she cried out, biting his shoulder in an attempt to stay quiet. He pulled one hand away from her chest and tugged at the laces of her breeches, pulling until they came free and his hand dove down, seeking her cunt, groaning when he found it wet and dripping and so, so ready for him.

Still, he wasn’t the only one seeking pleasure here. He felt Arya tense and bow her back, thrusting her hips up into his hand, chasing her peak. He pulled his mouth back up to hers, and as he kissed her, he thrust one finger, then two into her, scissoring slightly and then using them to massage the top of her walls. She rolled her hips in time to the movement of his hand, and he let go of her breast with his other hand to brace it against her back to support her. Her breathing grew short and rapid, and he slowed his movements, focusing on going as deep as possible, and dragging them along that spot that had her feet digging into the backs of his thighs. Finally, when her movements reached a fever pitch, he pushed his thumb against her clit, gentle compared to the rest of his hand, light and stroking and circling, and just like that, she fell apart underneath him.

He waited until her eyes fluttered open, his breath catching at the pale silver they had turned, and held her gaze as he raised his fingers to his mouth and sucked her off of him. Her pupils, already large, blew out and she reached for his hair, pulling him into a kiss so hard their teeth clacked together, and she licked the taste of her out of his mouth. The kiss knocked any air he had left out of his lungs, so that when he felt her hands push down his trousers and wrap around his length, his could only drop his head against her shoulder and groan.

There was nothing shy about her touch. He didn’t know why he would have expected any different. Her small hands wrapped around him, thumb dragging over his head to smear what was already beading at the tip over the rest of his cock. She took no prisoners in her movement, her fingers wrapped firmly around him, stroking in long, even, steady strokes. In no time at all he was panting harshly against her throat, hands running over her ribs, hips, breasts, back, anywhere he could reach. Finally, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back roughly, pulling her mouth back to his, and pushing away her hands with his free hand. “If you don’t want this to be over before it begins, I suggest you stop, little wolf.”

The nickname that spilled so naturally from his lips sparked a light in her eyes, and she wrapped herself tighter around him, kissing him in such a way that had him pushing his trousers the rest of the way down his legs and pulling her closer to the edge of the table. Wrapping one arm around her back and cradling the other hand around her neck, he lowered her down the length of the table and then straightened up, taking himself in hand. Arya propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him with hooded eyes, a small smile dancing around her lips. “No featherbed for me?”

Gendry snorted, not believing her to be serious for a moment. “If you wanted a featherbed, you wouldn’t have come to a blacksmith.”

She started to respond, but was cut off as Gendry began to push himself slowly into her. They both watched as he pushed his hot length further and further into her slick heat, stretching and molding him to her. He raised his eyes to watch as she bit her lip and threw back her head, breathing stopped completely as she tried to hold back a moan. Finally he was cradled fully inside her, hands holding her hips, legs draped over his elbows. He cocked an an eyebrow at her, silently asking if she was okay. In answer, she rolled herself against him, and Gendry’s sliver of control snapped.

Later, he would remember his desire to bed her gently, tenderly, with sweet kisses and soft touches, bringing her to the edge as many times as her body would allow. And he supposed there would be time for that. This, though…

This was a song of the wild wolf and the angry bull. Ferocious, heated, painful, and punishing. His hips drove into hers, snapping in and out of her with no let up, no mercy, until she could no longer silence her cries. His fingers bruised her hips, her breasts, her back as they dug into her, pulling her closer and closer to him with each stroke, as though making up for every year they had been apart. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up to him, flush against his chest, as he continued his furious pace. He breathed harshly down her neck, teeth and lips and tongue marking the long column of her throat so that she’d have to wear a scarf if no one was to know what she had done the night before. Whispering loving, filthy things about her, her cunt, her body. Things he would never have been able to say without this fire burning between them.

She, in turn, panted hotly into his ear, teeth dragging along his earlobe, tongue tracing the shell of his ear. Each thrust pushed a whimper or a moan out of her, each breath was breathed around his name, a constant chorus in his ear. Her nails bit into his back, and she pressed herself into him as though she never wanted to let go. Legs wrapped around him, cunt like a vice on his cock, Gendry swore he could die here and regret nothing.Finally, as he felt a tension in his abdomen and felt her shuddering against him, he pushed a hand between their bodies, rubbing at where their sexes joined. “Arya, please,” he whispered brokenly, snapping his hips harshly into her, rubbing at her clit, begging her to fall with him.

And with one last shudder, one last moan, she did, crying out and wrapping herself all the way around him, clenching around him and milking him as he, too, fell apart inside of her.

They held each other for a minute, heartbeats slowing, breaths evening out, until Gendry realized that the fire in the forge had burned low, and it was actually getting cold in the smithy. He pulled himself away from Arya to look at her, to see her eyes, see where they stood.

A softer look than any he’d ever seen from her was on her face now. She reached out and touched his cheek lightly. “I’m still here,” she murmured, answering his unspoken question.

He smiled back at her, knowing they could die soon, knowing the world was going to shit, but still he smiled back at her, happier than he’d ever been. “I need to put more wood on the fire… but after…”

She took his hand, brought it up to her mouth, kissed his knuckles. “You were given rooms with Lord Beric, I believe. But,” and here his heart almost stopped for how endearingly shy she looked, “I think you’ll find mine far more comfortable. If you want. If…”

He cut her off with a swift kiss. “I spent years thinking I’d never see you again. You think I’d walk away from you now?”

Her answering smile was brilliant and shining and stole every thought, every breath from his body. As he leaned down to kiss her, he felt her calloused hands reach up and cup his face, and he smiled.  _ Lover's hands. Warrior's hands. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't exactly mean for this to turn into a smut, mostly because writing smut is fucking hard. So let me know what you think. I'm still new to Ao3 so I'm still learning how everything works, so if you think I need to update/change some things, let me know!
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to a TON of great ideas you guys have given me, I'm turning this fic into a series of one-shots, revolving around this reunion and Winterfell. It will mostly star Gendry and Arya, but there may be some appearances by the other characters. Like I said, this is my first fic that I've ever posted on AO3 (I used to use FF.net back in the day, but even that's been like six years) and I don't know why I was ever afraid to post something earlier. You guys have encouraged me to keep writing for this fandom, and to finish some of the stories I've had going for other fandoms, and I want to thank you for that from the bottom of my heart. And the best way I can do that is to keep writing.


	2. Atone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon laughed shortly. “We’re only alive because Gendry is apparently as good a runner as he is a rower.”
> 
> Arya went very still, her hearing suddenly sounded rather strange and tinny. One hand reached out to touch her elbow, and she looked over to see Bran smiling that kind, distant smile of his. “Yes,” he said quietly, answering a question she hadn’t asked. “It’s him.”

“Still have your Needle?”

Arya didn’t even try to hide her smile when she jumped into Jon’s arms like she had as a little girl. They’d both gotten bigger since then, but he still lifted her up and crushed her to him as he always had. They both laughed when Needle’s hilt banged into his hip, and she felt her eyes heat and throat clog as tears threatened to fall from her eyes. When he put her down, they both rubbed furiously at their eyes, still laughing even as they tried to hold back their tears. 

They both looked up when they heard Lord Davos shout something, and Arya saw someone who was heavily wrapped up as only a southerner would be walking away toward the smithy. She frowned slightly; something about the newcomer’s gait and stance seemed vaguely familiar…

Gentle fingers tapped her shoulder, bringing her attention back to her siblings, and she turned to look at Sansa who smiled gently at both of them. “Let’s go inside. I’ll have the cooks send something for all of us up to father’s solar.”

“Your solar,” Jon corrected, automatically, it seemed. 

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Come on.”

* * *

 

Their lunch was quiet. Jon ate like a starved man, and Arya wasn’t much better. Bran hardly ate anything at all, but kept staring intently at Jon. Sansa ate delicately as always, but she had changed in that she didn’t seem to mind when either her brother or sister tore into a haunch of meat like starving wolves

Arya still didn’t always know how to handle this new Sansa, the one with a quiet self-assurance that was nothing like her old vanity and pride, who didn’t seem bothered when things weren’t neat and perfect. She still loved her, probably even liked her more now, but it still threw her off sometimes. She occasionally could feel herself tensing for a reprimand at some of her more “unlady-like” behavior, only to look up and see her sister only smiling at her with an amused expression. 

Jon, too, had changed. He’d gone from the bastard boy of Winterfell who wore his irregular birth like a wound to a quiet, unflappable man. Well, and that made sense.  _ You can hardly go from bastard, to Lord Commander, to dead, to King in the North without a few changes,  _ Arya thought wryly. She almost hadn’t believed Sansa when she told her what had happened to Jon, but her sister had laughed at her disbelief.  _ You can wear a person’s face, Bran can see things that he wasn’t there for, but Jon coming back from the dead is too much for you? _

That hadn’t been the only thing that had convinced her, though. Arya could still remember Lord Beric, rising after the Hound had killed him. She still remembered shrieking at the Hound,  _ burn in hell _ , Gendry’s arm wrapped around her stomach, crushing her into his chest, stopping her from flying at the man. Remembered when everything went quiet and Beric had risen again, only to send the Hound on his way. 

Arya winced inwardly. Remembering the Brotherhood, remembering Gendry… it was still painful to her. Not angering, not anymore, just painful.

A large hand covered her own, and she flinched away automatically, her hand twitching to her belt before got herself under control. She looked up to see Jon watching her, his dark eyes quiet and thoughtful. There was no way he’d missed her reaction, but she was grateful when she saw no pity in his eyes. She wasn’t sorry she was so wary; it had come with her finally learning to fight. But she knew she was young, she knew she was female, she knew she wasn’t supposed to react the way she did. She only smiled wryly at him, shrugging one shoulder. “Winter is coming,” she said by way of explanation.

She heard Sansa snort, and looked over to see that she’d been watching them. “Winter is here,” her sister replied.

“When white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Bran murmured softly, his eyes vague in a way that spoke louder than words that he was elsewhere. Arya recognized what her father had told her, but wondered if he was seeing that day, or he was watching some other Stark in some other time say those words. 

Jon straightened slightly, and the siblings all shifted to face him. He flexed his hands in front of himself, and Arya watched the firelight play along the burn scars that covered one of his hands. Another story, she thought, for another time. She looked back up at her brother, and this time she was the one who reached out and took his hand. She saw Sansa on the other side of him do the same, and both sisters reached out for Bran, completing the circle. “Whatever it is…” Arya began.

“We’ll get through it together,” Sansa finished for her, smiling that soft, sweet smile that made her look so much like Catelyn that Arya’s heart ached.

Jon nodded and began to speak. They stayed in the solar for the rest of the day, and spoke well into the evening.

* * *

 

Arya leaned back in her chair, resting her feet on the legs of the table. Jon kicked at one of the legs of her chair, but she grinned easily at him, shifting to avoid losing balance. “So. You brought a wight back with you?”

He nodded, grimacing at the memory. “Cersei can’t be expected to just take my word that the dead are walking.” 

Sansa frowned. “It may not make a difference to her. She’s clever and ruthless, but she’s not always rational; she finally has the crown she wanted, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she chose to rule over a kingdom of corpses rather than give that up.”

Jon ran a hand over his beard, frustrated. “I’m not asking her to give up her crown… not yet. I’m just asking for a truce. If we waste time trying to cut each other to ribbons, we’re just handing over a tattered kingdom for the Night King to wash right though.”

“And how does your Dragon Queen feel about this?” Sansa asked, a slight edge creeping into her voice. Arya looked sharply up at her, but her sister’s face was still as ice.

Jon looked up her, eyes sad. “She lost a dragon to him, Sansa. If anything, she wants him destroyed more than we do.”

Arya wondered at Jon’s strange tone, but she stayed silent. She wanted Cersei dead, but outside of that she didn’t really care who sat on what throne. She was here to keep her family alive, and if this Daenerys would do that, then Arya would accept her. Something did occur to her, though. “How did she know you needed help? I thought she stayed at Dragonstone.”

Jon laughed shortly. “We’re only alive because Gendry is apparently as good a runner as he is a rower.”

Arya went very still, her hearing suddenly sounded rather strange and tinny. Distantly she felt her knuckles tighten around her sword hilt and heard Jon answer a question to Sansa she hadn’t heard. She slowly forced air through her nose and pulled it back in almost painfully. One hand reached out to touch her elbow, and she looked over to see Bran smiling that kind, distant smile of his. “Yes,” he said quietly, answering a question she hadn’t asked. “It’s him. She didn’t kill him.”

She felt more than saw her other siblings halt their conversation to look at her, but she rather savagely shoved away any emotions she was feeling and kept a tight grip on her expression. “And it’s the same Gendry?”

“Yes. He’s Robert Baratheon’s son, you know,” Bran added lightly, casually, like that didn’t answer so many questions Arya had. “Lord Davos brought him him to Jon at Dragonstone.”

Arya shoved away from the table, chair legs screeching in protests against the stone floor. She couldn’t look at her siblings, though she could feel their concern. She waved them off, already turning to the door. “I… have to go. I’m useless in these debates, anyway.”

She risked a look up at both of them, and while concerned, both Jon and Sansa had matching almost amused expressions. “A friend of yours?”

To her horror, Arya felt her face flush bright red. She turned on her heel and fled the room, hearing the beginnings of laughter coming from both of them. “Piss off.”

* * *

 

Arya found Lord Beric with Lord Davos and the Hound in the kitchens after searching the castle for him. He was staring into the fire, but she could tell by his unfocused expression that he wasn’t really searching for anything in particular. She stood directly across from him, glaring at him until he looked up at her. “Yes, Princess?”

Her mouth twisted but she ignored the title. She wasn’t a lady, and with Jon bending the knee, she definitely wasn’t a princess, but this wasn’t the time to fight that. “Gendry is here.”

Beric’s mouth twisted into an odd smile. “Yes. Strange, that. The Red Priestess didn’t seem the type to lose track of him.”

Davos looked up from his food, eyes glinting in a way that made the kindly old man look almost dangerous. “She didn’t. I smuggled him out of Dragonstone before he could be killed for being unlucky enough to have Baratheon blood in his veins.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Half of fucking Flea Bottom probably has Baratheon blood in their veins.”

Davos seemed a bit shocked at her language, but the Hound and Beric just laughed. “Probably, but he’s what she had.”

“So why is he here?” she pressed.

Davos looked up at her oddly. “I asked him to come, m’lady. He’s a good smith and a good fighter, and we need both of those. And he’s a good man, and those are even harder to come by.”

Arya viciously choked down the strange lump that rose in her throat. She turned to glare at Beric who was smiling up at her. “What are you grinning at?”

“You and Gendry,” he answered without hesitation. “You’d think you both would be thrilled to see each other, but when he saw you, he turned red, white, then booked it for the smithy. He hasn’t been out since.”

Arya sat down heavily. “He saw me?”

“Aye, though it took me a moment to recognize you and realize what he was staring at.” Beric watched her, his gaze almost gentle. “I think he thought you were dead. Most of us did after this one-" he jerked his chin at Clegane "-took you. I rather expect that’s why he’s here.”

Arya looked at him sharply. “What the hell does that mean?”

The Hound laughed roughly. “Don’t be stupid, girl. The boy loved you.”

“We were children!”

“And children can’t love?” he shot back, irritated. “I’m not saying he was in love with you; you were a scrawny, half-starved pain in the arse. But he loved you, and then he thought you died. He’s here because he think he needs to atone.”

Arya glared at him. “And what the hell do you know about it?”

“Why the fuck do you think  _ I’m _ here?” 

She fell silent for a moment. She looked down at the table and traced the scars from years of knives and forks that battered the ancient oak. She had seen Clegane pledge himself to Sansa, had wondered at it herself, but now that she thought about it, she didn’t understand why. She looked back up at him. “Why  _ are _ you here?”

The Hound grunted and looked back at his food. He opened his mouth a few times, seemingly trying to find the right words, then finally spoke. “I should have protected her in King’s Landing. I didn’t. I told myself it was because I couldn’t, but really, I was a coward, pledged to an insane king. But I can now. And I will.”

Davos looked over at him, surprised. “Sansa spoke to Jon once of some of her time at the court. She said that you were one of the only ones who was...kind to her.”

Clegane snorted. “And it’s a mark of how horrible that place was that she considers what I did kind. I shielded her when I could, but I could have done more. And I didn’t.”

“Not without getting punished, or worse,” Arya murmured. 

He made a disgusted noise in his throat. “I’m not afraid of pain. And it doesn’t matter. Done is done. The little bird flew away, and has learned to play the game, and that’s how she’s survived this long.. She plays it well, too, but it’s still just a game. Those frozen cunts don’t give a fuck about thrones, though, or lords, or ladies, and she’ll need more than cleverness to keep her alive against the coming storm. I couldn’t protect her then. I can now.”

Arya could see by his clenched jaw and tight eyes that he was done talking about this. And that was fine. If her family had one more protector, so much the better. They would need it. Her thoughts went back to Gendry. “So… you think he’s here to atone? For what?”

It was Beric who answered. “Because Gendry thinks he failed you and betrayed you by choosing to stay with us. Then we sold him, and you ‘died,’ and he never had a chance to make it right. This is the best he could do.”

Arya wasn’t sure how to process that, but she knew she needed to see him. They couldn’t avoid each other forever, and now that she’d thought about it, she realized she wanted to see him. She had missed the stubborn idiot, she could now admit to herself. “Where is he?”

Beric laughed. “You know where. He went where he felt comfortable.”

Arya nodded and went to the pot that held the stew they’d eaten. She poured two bowls that she balanced on one arm and took a lantern from the wall with another. “Well, then, it’s time for him to eat.”

* * *

 

Arya opened the smithy door carefully, wanting to be silent and also not wanting to spill the stew. She pointedly avoided looking at the figure she could see highlighted by the firelight, and instead hung up the lantern and transferred one of the bowls to her other hand. She took a deep breath and looked up to face the boy she hadn’t seen in almost four years. 

He had grown, she saw. He was shirtless with only an apron covering his chest, like he always was when he worked at the forge. She could see muscles and scars that hadn’t been there before. The firelight played across his sweating skin in a way that made her stomach clench, though she didn’t understand why.  _ Not a boy,  _ she thought with an inward shudder of nervousness and half-painful excitement that confused her more than a little.  _ A man.  _

Arya watched as he picked up a mallet and began working on a breastplate at the bench, and she saw how his arms trembled, like he’d been working too long. And he probably had. As far as she knew, he’d been here since they came in this morning, and he hadn’t eaten, either. She took a deep breath. 

“You’ll ruin it if you work in this state, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sort of guessing a little bit on how long it'd been since they had seen each other. Four seasons, so four years? If anyone can give me a better timeline, I'll edit that small bit. Otherwise, let me know what you think. My next chapter may involve Gendry and Arya's relationship and how various people in Winterfell react to it. Also, GUYS APOSTROPHES ARE FUCKING HARD. I haven't been in school in so long that I have sadly forgotten how to use them when it's plural, possessive, etc. SOMEONE HELP. Google only confused me more.


	3. A Champion, a Direwolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She won’t thank you for it. All she wanted was to be home with her family. More of her family is alive than she ever thought was possible, and now, regardless of whatever title you thrust on her, she’s going to do her damndest to make sure she doesn’t lose anyone else. She’s a direwolf, Jon. She’s not a lady, she’s not a knight, she’s a direwolf."

The fact that Lady Arya was not a lady was not one that would have surprised anyone in Winterfell. If you’d been able to ask the servants who worked at Winterfell when Lord Eddard was still alive, they would have had plenty of stories to tell. “The little lady was trouble, soon as she could walk. Always gettin’ into scrapes, beatin’ her brothers at archery, at a sword when she could nick one. If Lord Stark knows what’s good for ‘im, he’ll send the girl off the Mormonts an’ teach her to fight. Girl’s more wolf than lady.”

The current Lord Snow and Lady Stark did know what was good for them, though the Arya that came home to them already knew how to fight. She also wasn’t a girl, but a grown woman. Which was how they found themselves in this odd position.

“She can’t be the weapons master, Jon,” Sansa huffed with exasperation.

“Why not?” he shot back.

They both stood on the walkway overlooking the courtyard. Arya was below, teaching Pod and Gendry various lessons on swordplay. The squire was attentive and polite, and very hard-working, while the blacksmith listened, but would argue, swear at her, and point out that he fought with a hammer, not “a fucking Needle.” Jon and Sansa knew that Arya had known Gendry before, but she was very close-mouthed about it, and they didn’t really know how to handle him.

“Because,” Sansa said pointedly, “none of the men of the castle would take her seriously. They’d laugh at her, or be disrespectful, or tell her to go back to embroidery.”

Jon laughed shortly. “Only once.”

“Yes, and then we’d have a weapons master who has killed or maimed half the men in the castle, and how long do you think we’d be able to keep men around?”

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, then glanced at Clegane, who stood a few feet away, his face impassive, though he appeared to be watching Arya as well. “Clegane. Were you listening?”

“You weren’t exactly whispering.”

Jon ignored that. He still didn’t know what to make of this large, rough, vulgar man and his strangely gentle treatment of his sisters. “What would you?”

Clegane looked up from watching Arya twist Pod’s arm behind his back and met Jon’s eyes steadily. “Why are you asking me?”

Sansa smiled a soft smile that Jon hadn’t seen from her since… ever, really. “Because apart from us, you understand Arya probably the best out of anyone here.”

He snorted. “Not really. I understand her anger, and I understand her love of fighting. But her? Gendry’s better qualified for that.”

Jon fought to keep his face and voice steady. He didn’t really like the implication in that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clegane raised an eyebrow at the siblings, as though surprised at how confused they both seemed. “What, are you fucking blind? When was the last time you saw Gendry come out of his own room? And the little wolf has been wearing high-necked clothes since she came home, and you can tell it’s not for fun, because she always claws at them like she wants to rip them off.”

Jon and Sansa both looked back at their sister below, and sure enough, she was tugging at her high collar uncomfortably. They saw Gendry watching her too, and when Arya caught his eye, he smirked at her in a way that seemed… intimate. “Son of a…”

Jon turned on his heel and marched towards the stairs, only to feel himself being yanked back by Sansa’s surprisingly strong grip. “And where do you think you’re going?”

He reddened, but fought to keep his voice down. “He… and she… but he… she’s our sister! And he’s a…”

Sansa raised one eyebrow at him, her clear blue eyes cool and calm. “A what? A bastard? Rather hypocritical, don’t you think?” He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him quickly. “Or were you going to say blacksmith? And what about your brothers on the Wall? What were they? How many _Sers_ and _Lords_ were by your side on the Wall, _Lord Snow_?”

As quickly as his anger had flared, it vanished. She was right. _She usually is,_ Jon thought wryly. “I’m sorry. But… what now?”

Sansa shrugged. “Arya’s not a lady. She’s made that perfectly clear. So I don’t suppose it matters much who ends up in her bed. But she needs a place here at Winterfell, and she’s being remarkably unhelpful about figuring out where that is. But it’s entirely possible that this blacksmith,” she nodded down at Gendry with a strangely gentle smile, “might be able to answer that question.”

* * *

 Jon found Gendry later that night at the forge. He’d waited until he saw Arya leave, partly because he wanted to speak to him alone, and partly because he wanted to see how they behaved when they thought no one else was looking. He stood in the shadow of the courtyard, and watched the door to the smithy open, and Arya stand on tiptoe to kiss Gendry on the cheek, her eyes softer and happier than Jon had been expecting.

 _She loves him,_ he thought with some surprise, but found the thought didn’t upset him like it might have earlier. Now, Jon was only happy for her, glad at least someone in his family had found a good person to love. _Our lives are too short, and winter is here._

He waited a few extra minutes, and then entered the smithy, where Gendry was sweeping up the stray filings from the day. Jon had noticed in the few short days since he’d come to Winterfell, the blacksmith had seemed to take over the smithy, reinstating some sort of order to the chaos it had become since the Bolton’s had taken over. He looked up from his broom when he saw Jon entered, and then awkwardly bowed. Jon bit the inside of his cheek against a smile. “M’lord.”

Jon waved at him to carry on, and sat down on one of the benches. “Relax. I’m not here as a lord.”

Gendry seemed almost roll his eyes at that. “Forgive me, m’lord, but you don’t ever really _stop_ being a Lord.”

Jon snorted. “I haven’t been a Lord for most of my life, Gendry. That title is still rather new to me, and unnecessary. You can call me Jon.”

The blacksmith shifted slightly, but didn’t say anything. He seemed to have retreated behind a layer of formality that didn’t really seem natural on him, considering Jon had just heard him a few hours ago tell his sister to “quit prancing about like a fuckin’ fairy and fight.”

 _Maybe he’s more nervous around you because he’s afraid you’ll find out._ Jon’s mouth twisted slightly, and he watched Gendry closely when he said, “I have a question for you. About Arya.”

Sure enough, Gendry went white and rigid, and then dropped his eyes back to his broom. Jon had to bite down another laugh. _Does he think Arya wouldn’t kill me if I did anything to him?_   “You and her seem close.”

Gendry coughed and spun away from Jon, sweeping at a part of the floor that looked perfectly clean. “We traveled together with the Brotherhood for awhile. M’lord.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. Getting any sort of story from Arya was like pulling teeth. He hadn’t known she’d been with the Brotherhood. About all he knew was that Yoren of the Night’s Watch had spirited her away from King’s Landing, but he hadn’t been able to get more from her than that. “Exactly. I haven’t seen my sister since she was nine. I gave her Needle, you know.”

Gendry glanced up with a slight smile. “I know. The first time I met her, she was threatening to kill a boy three times her size with it. I didn’t doubt she meant it, but I stepped in anyway.”

Jon cocked his head. “Why? She had the sword.”

Gendry laughed, seeming more relaxed. “Because it was two against one, and both of them were angry and bigger than her. She might have taken care of it, or she could have gotten herself killed, and besides, as far as I knew, she was going to be my brother in the Night’s Watch. I figured it was bad form to let her get killed.”

“Your… brother?” Jon was more than a little confused.

“Yeah. Her hair was cut short, and she wore boy’s clothes and went by Arry. I guess Yoren thought it would be safer if she pretended to be a boy.” Gendry’s mouth twisted slightly, and Jon wondered at it. “He was probably right. He’s lucky most of the boys we were traveling with were idiots. I knew she was a girl a few days in.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged. “Figured she was with Yoren for a reason, and whatever it was probably wasn’t my business. I did try to stick a bit closer to her after that, though, in case she needed help.”

Jon frowned. “Because she was a girl?”

Gendry rolled his eyes at Jon. “No, because she was smaller than she is even now, and the roads weren’t safe from the start.”

Jon watched Gendry for a long moment. _No wonder she loves him. They’ve been looking out for each other since this whole thing began._ It also explained why she had reacted so strongly when she found out he was here. And he could hear in his voice how much he loved her. It also better explained why Gendry had joined them. It had never made sense to Jon that the smith wanted to honor a father he’d never known. But to help the family of a girl he thought dead, a girl he had loved…?

Yes. He would do.

Jon cleared his throat. “So. You know her. So I have a question for you.”

Gendry had relax enough to straight and lean against the broom. “Yes, m’lord?”

“Arya… is a bit…”

Jon floundered for a moment, trying to find the words, but Gendry supplied them easily. “Stubborn? Wild? Short-tempered?”

Jon laughed. “Yes. And Sansa and I are trying to figure out what to do with her.”

Gendry frowned, straightening up a bit. Jon smiled inwardly as he watched him struggle with both protectiveness and class distinctions. “M’lord…?”

Jon held up a hand. “Not… she’s not a problem. It’s just, she needs a position at Winterfell, but she’s not a lady. I had suggested weapons master, but---”

“---but she’d kill the first man who tried to tell her to go back to dancing lessons,” Gendry finished, immediately picking up on the problem.

“Exactly,” Jon said, relieved. “Clegane told me you might have some ideas on what would be a good position for her.”

Gendry nodded, and went to put the broom back in the closet. He absently drifted around the smith, tidying up rather aimlessly with a pensive look on his face. Jon waited patiently. He was clearly thinking.

Finally, “Why not your champion?”

Jon was taken aback. “My… _what_?”

Gendry’s mouth twisted. “That wasn’t… I don’t know what the titles are. And I don’t mean yours specifically. But... Arya’s a fighter. She wouldn’t want to rule or anything. She came back to fight for House Stark. And I’m sure you don’t want her to be a common foot soldier, and she deserves more than being a house guard… so what about a champion of House Stark?”

Jon frowned. “She’s of the old gods… she couldn’t be a knight…”

Gendry rolled his eyes. “Nor would she want to be. Make up your own title for her, if you want. She doesn’t need one, though, despite what you think. I get why you’re trying to do it, but…” He swallowed, suddenly nervous, but pushed on. “She won’t thank you for it. All she wanted was to be home with her family. More of her family is alive than she ever thought was possible, and now, regardless of whatever title you thrust on her, she’s going to do her damndest to make sure she doesn’t lose anyone else. She’s a direwolf, Jon. She’s not a lady, she’s not a knight, she’s a direwolf.”

Gendry stepped back a bit, seeming embarrassed by that outburst. Jon stared at him for a long moment, then looked away quickly, moving to the fire burning in the smithy. It took him a minute to find his voice. When he spoke, the question took him by surprise as much as it did Gendry. “Are you going to marry her?”

The silence was deafening. When he turned around, he saw that the man had turned pale. Jon didn’t press, only waited for an answer. Gendry swallowed heavily, but seemed to find courage in the fact that he wasn’t coming at him with a blade. “I hadn’t… I hadn’t thought about it, m’lord.”

Jon quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Gendry flushed, and stammered when he spoke. “It’s not that… I wouldn’t… I’m not trying to dishonor her!” he blurted out hastily. “It’s just that… Arya is a Stark. I love her, and I’ll follow her and watch her back through whatever hell is coming… but I’m not even a Waters. I was never acknowledged. And…” His shoulders slumped, and he sat down a little shakily.

Jon was almost and uncomfortable with this conversation as Gendry was, but it was one he felt he had to have. Arya was a terrifying, beautiful woman that he had no doubt would eviscerate the poor man if he even thought about hurting her. But she was still his sister, and she’d been through enough. So he pushed. “And?”

“And she’s a Stark.”

The words were so simple, so obvious, that to anyone who wasn’t him, they wouldn’t have made sense. But Jon knew exactly where what he meant. He knew, intimately, the wells of self-doubt and pain and anger that Gendry spoke from.

_I’m not a Stark._

_You are to me._

A man can’t go from the Bastard of Winterfell, to lowly steward of the Night’s Watch, to Lord Commander, to dead, to King of the North without learning a few things. A few things that Gendry hadn’t been able to learn, had never had the chance to. Jon spoke as gently as he could. “Gendry, what is my name?”

The smith looked up at him, confused. “Your… name?” He nodded. “Jon.”

Jon smirked. “You’re remarkably polite. What is the rest of my name?” When Gendry didn’t answer, he did. “Snow. My name is Jon Snow. My people named me King in the North, knowing I would never be a Stark. Stark blood runs in my veins, but I will never bear that name. More than that, though, it’s not blood that matters. Joffrey, Cersei, Aerys Targaryen… They all have royal blood, and they were cunts, every one of them.”

Gendry laughed shortly. “Cunts, maybe, but cunts raised in court. Like you.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “So we learned to say ‘my lord,’ instead of ‘m’lord.’ Somehow, I don’t think it was the art of being a courtier that kept you and my sister alive all these years.”

Gendry scrubbed a hand over his face, but was unable to hide a slight smile pulling at his lips. “Are you saying you’ll kill me if I don’t marry her?”

Jon grinned and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Not at all. If that’s something Arya wants and you refuse, I’m sure she’s more than capable of handling the job herself. I’m just saying, winter is here, the dead are coming, and we’ve more important things to worry about than who was born on the right side of the sheet.”

With that, he stood and moved to the door. He’d come for advice, gotten it, and given a bit of his own. It was time for Jon to leave, before he stuck his nose any farther into something that really was none of his business. Just as he reached the door, though, he turned slightly, not looking at Gendry as he spoke. “Though, if you’re worried that you’ll steal her name from her… Arya is a Stark. She always has been, and she always will be. If she chooses to marry, but still wishes to keep the name… Well, if a bastard can be king, who's to say she can’t remain a Stark?”

And he left.

* * *

 By the time Gendry made his way up to her bedroom, Arya had already crawled under the furs and was half asleep. She made a little noise like a half-growl as she turned and burrowed into him, smirking when he hissed at how cold her nose was. “What kept you?”

He looked down at this tiny, beautiful woman that somehow he was allowed to hold and to love when everything else seemed horrible, and couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. He didn’t mention his conversation with Jon, though. It didn’t seem quite time for that. It was too soon, she still had too many walls, he still had too many scars.

Someday, though…

Arya raised her head slightly to look at him when he didn’t answer. Gendry smiled gently down at her and kissed her forehead. “It was nothing, little wolf. Just had to finish a few things in the smithy.”

She hummed and laid back down, and as Gendry drifted off, he couldn’t help but think that maybe ‘someday’ wasn’t too far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't quite turn out the way I had planned, so any constructive criticism would be appreciate. Smut is coming again, I promise. Either the next chapter or the one after, depending on the order of the next two stories I write. I think I only have two, maybe three more in mind, so you guys don't have to wait on too many more updates. Thank you all for your patience and support. I really, really appreciate it. :) Also I've noticed my chapters getting shorter, and that hasn't been out of laziness. It's more because the stories are a bit more condensed, in shorter time frames, with less exposition necessary. I could fill them out, but every time I tried, what I was writing felt redundant and unnecessary. I think the next few will be a bit longer.


	4. Short Authors Note

Sorry to excite you with a notification for it to only be this but I figured I owed you guys an explanation: 

I have between two-four more chapters on this story, depending on how certain interactions play out. Like all of the chapters so far, you could theoretically read them as a stand alone, but I think they work better together.

However.

I have severe anxiety and depression, and as you may have noticed, I started this story right before winter started... and winter is when I’m at my absolute worst. All of my energy goes into being a semi-functional adult that can get my rent paid on time and remember to eat. So while I do sincerely apologize to those who have been waiting, I can’t apologize for doing what I had to do to make it through the winter.

That being said, the sun is coming out and my energy and creativity are returning, thank God. So if y’all can hang in there for a few more weeks/a month at the most, I will try to get out the rest of the chapters y’all have been so patiently waiting on.

Once again, I am just so incredibly grateful for the support and kudos and comments you guys have given me, and I promise I will try to do right by you with this story.

Much love, 

Faith


	5. The Illusion of Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in the years she’d known him, Sansa watched a smile spread across his face. It was unsure, hesitant, as though the muscles in his face hadn’t ever learned how to do it. But she couldn’t help but notice that it made him almost… handsome.
> 
> And Sansa felt safe.

By now, it was all around the keep. _The North is kneeling again_ , servants and pages and stable boys all whispered to each other. Ravens were flying to and from the maester’s tower, and Lord Jon had ridden out the day before to White Harbor to meet the dragon queen before sailing south to Kings Landing. He had taken Brienne and Beric with him and left Clegane and Arya to protect Lady Sansa, as she once again donned the mantle of Lady of Winterfell. Some whispered that he meant that to be a title she would always wield.

* * *

Sansa stood watch on the walls of Winterfell, eyes blank and unseeing as she looked out over the white landscape. The snow continued as it would for the next several years, and had created great drifts that turned the land into a smooth, featureless plain. It was soothing to look at, clean and pure, with the sky the same color as the land. It was as though a white bowl had been turned upside-down over Winterfell. Like they were isolated. Safe.  
  
Sansa snorted. She hadn’t been safe in years.  
  
Still, there was something to be said for the illusion of safety, and the balm it was to a young woman who still bore the scars from her last husband. Who instinctively flinched away when a man reached for her, or moved too fast near her, or were too handsome. Joffrey had been handsome, Ramsay had been handsome, even Littlefinger in his way had been handsome. All had betrayed her, abused her, manipulated her. And now they were all dead.  
  
She couldn’t even feel guilty for the small smirk that curled in the corner of her mouth.  
  
“What are you laughing at, little bird?”  
  
Sansa turned to see the Hound ( _Sandor,_ she reminded herself sharply, refusing to call him by Joffrey’s pet name) coming up the stairs. He was fully armored, but he no longer wore the ugly snarling helm, and instead of black and yellow, the fur-lined cloak he wore over his platemail was gray and white. She liked the wolves on him better. The fierceness of wolves suited him far better than the viciousness of dogs.  
  
She pushed away those thoughts with a little shake, turning to look back out over the wall. “Nothing. Just thinking about something you told me once.”  
  
Sandor came to stand behind her. She could hear his gauntlet clink against the pommel as his his hand rested on his sword. “Was I drunk?”  
  
She huffed a small laugh. “Probably. But you told me once that there is nothing sweeter than killing, and that any man who told me differently was a liar, both to me and to themselves.”  
  
He didn’t respond for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower, rougher than usual, but she couldn’t identify the emotion behind it. “That was… unkind. I shouldn’t have said it.” Each word sounded like it was being pulled out of him, the almost-apology foreign on his tongue.  
  
Sansa turned her head slightly to look at him over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Why? It was true. I’ve never killed anyone, personally. But here I stand, on the walls of Winterfell, looking out over my home. I am here, and they are dead. And I don’t think there is anything sweeter than that.”  
  
Sandor’s gaze shifted from where he had been watching the snowfall to her, his dark eyes calm and steady and utterly unreadable. He didn’t speak, but Sansa felt a strange flush spread through her body. It felt as though he could see into her, _through_ her, could see all the ugly little thoughts in her mind, the darkness that lurked in her heart, a darkness born of pain, hatred, and the thirst for revenge. She didn’t flush because her transparency under his gaze frightened her; she flushed because it inexplicably didn’t. For years she had learned to hide her thoughts from men, and yet for some reason, Sandor made it feel as though it was safe for her to speak them.  
  
Sansa’s face hardened and she turned away, letting the ice return to her eyes. _I haven’t been safe in years_.

* * *

“We might have a problem.”  
  
Sansa looked up from the letter she was writing to see Gendry standing awkwardly in the door of her study. She ignored Sandor’s inelegant snort and carefully set down her pen. “Well, this sounds promising. Have a seat.”  
  
The blacksmith shuffled forward and sat down heavily in the chair before her desk. Her eyes narrowed. He was limping and also very carefully avoiding her gaze.  
  
In theory, Sansa liked Gendry. Since she had regained her sister, Sansa had no intention of forcing her sister into the role of a lady. They had both been through too much for that term to have any real meaning anymore. And her and Gendry’s relationship, while unorthodox, was clearly a loving one. He was protective, respectful of her strength, and had proven his loyalty time and again. He was, she imagined, everything Robert Baratheon should have been.  
  
She tried to remind herself of that every time he came too close to her, with his muscles and his blue eyes and his booming laugh.  
  
Sansa rather thought he knew he made her uncomfortable. At times, he almost seemed to try to shrink himself around her, like now, as he slouched low in his seat. He rarely talked to her directly, and as much as possible kept himself at a distance from her. Which is why she knew something most have happened to bring him here.  
  
When he didn’t speak for a moment, she cleared her throat, a tad impatiently. “Well?”  
  
Gendry’s eyes flicked up to meet hers briefly, then settled on an obsidian paperweight on her desk. “Arya…. might have stabbed one of the Flints. A little bit.”  
  
Sansa blinked. “How does one stab someone ‘a little bit’?”  
  
She heard Sandor clinking from the door as he shifted, and she suspected he was biting back a laugh. Even Gendry smiled a little sheepishly as he met her eyes again. “It’s… the boy bled a little, and Maester Samwell said that he should walking normally in the next two months or so, but---”  
  
“ _Two_ _months_?” Sansa could hear how sharp her voice was. “What did she _do_ to the boy?”  
  
He frowned, and she saw sparks in his blue eyes. Whatever had happened, it had angered him too. “He… The boy is a stable-boy, but many of the servants from the different houses have been gathering to watch Arya train Podrick and I. And she has been teaching them as well, if they’ve been bold enough to ask.”  
  
Sansa sighed and leaned back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I told her that was a bad idea. She’s a woman, they won’t take her seriously.” Lowering her hand, she looked up to see Gendry watching her. “But I believe I know where this is going. Please, continue.”  
  
Gendry sat up straighter, and he met her gaze squarely. Somehow, that made it easier to be less nervous around him. “Actually, my Lady, I don’t think you do.”  
  
She arched one brow. “Oh?”  
  
“Arten wasn’t disrespecting Arya. Even if he did, she has learned to deal with that fairly efficiently.” Sansa decided she didn’t want to _know_ what that meant. “It’s… he was disrespecting you.”  
  
Ice trailed down her spine, but she fought to keep her voice steady. She glanced over at Sandor, and noticed that he had straightened slightly, his expression unnaturally flat. “Oh? Was it something I should be concerned about?”  
  
He nodded, and then looked over his shoulder at Sandor. “Clegane, this concerns you too.”  
  
Sandor glanced at her, and when she nodded slightly, and came to stand next to her. “Quit dancing around the issue, boy. What was said?”  
  
Gendry eyed Sandor warily, and then looked at Sansa. “There were some… inappropriate comments made, regarding the close relationship between you two. Specifically, the amount of time you two spend alone.”  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor wrap his fist tightly around the pommel of his sword, his gauntlet crunching harshly together. She reached out and lightly laid one hand on his arm. She could feel the tension thrumming through his body. “He is my sworn champion and protector. As such, he goes where I go. What could possibly be scandalous about that?”  
  
The blacksmith shrugged. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, my Lady. These are dangerous times, and more than ever you need protection. It’s just… you were married to a Lannister, and Clegane used to be a sworn man to Joffrey. I can’t speak for what the heads of all the Houses believe, but among some of the smaller men, there is… talk. That maybe you two have been… involved. Both in King’s Landing, and here.”  
  
Sansa’s mouth twisted bitterly, and she spoke without thinking. “So my half-wild little sister, my crippled little brother, and my brother who isn’t even technically a Stark, they are all respected as members of this house. But I who had the misfortune of being forced into two marriages beyond my control… I will never been trusted. I will always be a Lannister. Or worse, a Bolton.”  
  
She stood up, suddenly unable to sit still with the strange mixture of ice and heat flooding through her body, and went to the window. She gripped the stone edge tightly, her knuckles turning white as she looked out over the keep. Her keep. “I have been beaten, raped, and tortured, and still I fought to come home. I have shed blood, lied, manipulated, and killed, all to save the North, to save my people. I lost my mother, my father, two of my brothers. I have gambled my life and my family, all for my people.” She drew in a ragged breath, shaking with fury and something else, something sharper. “And yet to them, I’ll always be a Bolton. Or a Lannister. Or Baelish’s chess piece. But I will never be myself. I will never be a _Stark._ ”  
  
She felt water pricking at the corner of her eyes, and tilted her head back, forcing them open, refusing to allow the tears to fall. She almost jumped when she felt a heavy touch on her shoulder, and turned to see it was Sandor. Gendry had stood up as well. “My Lady, you’re not…” The boy’s mouth twisted for a second, and then, all in a rush, “Fuck those useless cunts. Those who know you, those who have been paying attention for half a second, they realize who you are. One idiot in the stables doesn’t speak for the rest of your people. Like I said, I don’t know what the Lords are saying, only what little shits like Arten are saying. But if you would prefer, I can stop holding Arya back every time she gets into one of these fights.”  
  
Sansa laughed, and was almost horrified to hear how weak it sounded. _I have lived through worse than castle gossip_ , she reminded herself. _My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel._ She shook herself sharply. “No. It’ll be a hard thing to explain to Jon when he comes back, that I let our little sister depopulate the North.”  
  
Gendry gave her an odd look at that, one she couldn’t quite interpret, though he kept his thoughts to himself. “As you say. Would you like anything done with Arten?”  
  
She smiled, sharp as a blade. “No. I rather suspect having Needle shoved through his leg was lesson enough.”  
  
Gendry bowed rather awkwardly and turned to leave. “Gendry?”  
  
He looked back at her, and she fought to keep her voice and face smooth. “Thank you. For defending me. And for protecting Arya.”  
  
His eyes softened, as they always did at the mention of her sister. “She doesn’t need protection. She just needs gentle reminders that she’s five foot nothing and she’s trying to fight a group of fifteen fully-grown men.”  
  
Sansa laughed, a sound that surprised her. “Only fifteen? I’d say the odds are in her favor.”  
  
Gendry grinned at her, a mischievous look that seemed far more natural on him. “I didn’t say I was reminding her for _her_ sake.”  
  
They both laughed at that, and then he ducked out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Sansa stood there smiling for a moment, and then turned to face Sandor. The mirth vanished as quickly as it had come.  
  
Sandor had never been a courtier. It was one of the many strange reasons she had grown to trust him, even if she hadn’t liked him. He spoke the truth, at least as he saw it, and if he didnt use words, you could see it burning in his eyes. So to see him standing only a few feet away from her with an expression as flat as stone… He may as well have been a thousand miles away.  
  
Sansa took a cautious step towards him. She wasn’t afraid of him, not anymore, but she was careful with him. She’d come to recognize over the years that he was another one whose scars ran miles deep; he just happened to bear them on his skin as well. “Sandor?”  
  
His dark eyes met hers, and something in them flickered with an emotion she couldn’t quite identify. “Yes, little bird?”  
  
She wondered when that once cruel insult became the sweetest endearment she’d ever heard. “What’s wrong?”  
  
He looked away again, eyes trained on the door, like he expected a Walker to come bursting through at any moment. She watched the muscles in his jaw ripple as he clenched and unclenched, testing the words in his mouth before he released them. “You’re a Stark.”  
  
It wasn’t a question. “Yes.”  
  
“Your people are Northmen. And as they’re so fond of saying, the North remembers.”  
  
Sansa nodded slowly, unsure where he was going with this. “Yes. We are a stubborn people.”  
  
Sandor huffed once, the sound more irritated than amused. “Sansa, if you want people to remember you’re a wolf, you shouldn’t keep the lion's guard dog around.”  
  
She frowned. “You mean… send you away?”  
  
He nodded once, very slowly, eyes shuttered and mouth taut.  
  
Sansa wasn’t stupid, and she hadn’t forgotten King’s Landing. She knew who Sandor Clegane was. She remembered him riding into Winterfell the first time she met him, with his snarling helmet, burned face, and angry, feral eyes. She remembered the blood on his surcoat as he rode out of the woods with the body of the butcher boy ( _Mycah,_ she could still hear Arya’s screams) slung across his saddle like a deer carcass. She even remembered his fingers wrapped around her wrist like metal bands, digging into her skin and leaving bruises as he threatened to kill her if she ever repeated what Sir Gregor had done to him.  
  
But she also remembered how he stepped in front of Joffrey when she had considered killing him and herself. How gently he dabbed at her face with the handkerchief after one of the other Kingsguard had split it open. How quickly he’d covered her with his white cloak. And she distinctly remembered seeing his face appear behind the man he killed to protect her, and the fierce feeling of a savage joy that, yes, this man was killing, this man was killing for her.  
  
Yes, Sandor Clegane had been the King’s Hound. He had fought and killed for the Lannisters. He was unknighted, uncouth, harsh, and often cruel.  
  
But she was Sansa Stark. She was made of the North, of cold, driving winds, of fresh fallen snow, with it’s unearthly beauty and hidden danger. She had survived Ramsay Bolton, and had killed him with his own dogs. She had survived Baelish, and had him killed with his own dagger. She had sacrificed so much, had so much taken from her.  
  
This was one thing she would not yield. Not even for the North.  
  
Sansa lifted her chin and looked Sandor in the eye. “Sandor Clegane. You swore yourself to me. Will you abandon me now?”  
  
Sandor glared at her, his mouth twisting and pulling his scars tightly across his cheek. “This isn’t about what I want. This is about what is best for you - you’re people.”  
  
She took a step towards him, and then another. She reached out her hand, and laid it gently across his scarred cheek. She didn’t miss the way he went rigid, nor the way he almost instantly relaxed back into her touch. “I am what is best for my people. Arya and Bran are what are best for my people. And you… you are what is best for me.”  
  
Sansa watched as his dark eyes softened, gentle in a way that no one else would have recognized. But she did. She idly wondered why she had once thought blue eyes were the most beautiful, when she had never seen Joffrey or Ramsay look at her with the same tenderness she saw in this scarred man. She did not take her eyes from his, but she felt him carefully remove one gauntlet, and raise his bare hand to cover hers. His skin scorched her in a way she didn’t recognize, one that half scared her, half thrilled her. “Little bird… I am not a good man.”  
  
No, he wasn’t. And her heart broke for him, and raged at the world who made him who he was. But Sansa only smiled gently at him, running her thumb across his cheekbone, eyes tracking the movements of his body as it swayed closer to hers. She found without surprise that their closeness didn’t frighten her. “Maybe not. But good men never saved me. I had to save myself. Maybe it’s time to try something different.”  
  
For the first time in the years she’d known him, Sansa watched a smile spread across his face. It was unsure, hesitant, as though the muscles in his face hadn’t ever learned how to do it. But she couldn’t help but notice that it made him almost… handsome.  
  
And Sansa felt safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience with me!
> 
> I know some of you were hoping for more Gendry smut (that is, of course, how I started this whole thing) and rest assured, it is coming(hah). But I wanted to do a chapter for Sansa and Sandor, and I can't make that explicit, or even really overtly romantic. In my mind, they are both people who have emotional and physical scars. The feelings they have for each other are real and pure, and purity isn't something they are used to, and it makes them cautious. So, don't hold your breath for a kiss chapter at any point. I can't see myself writing that, unless I wrote my way through their entire relationship as it evolved, because that's the only way I could figure out how it would even happen. Which I'm just not going to do. I like their relationship, but I'm not as heavily invested in it as I am with, say, Arya and Gendry. 
> 
> That being said, I think I only have two more chapters left, depending on how I go with this. Definitely one more smut chapter for Arya and Gendry, and probably a chapter where Daenerys comes to Winterfell. I also might do a chapter where Tyrion and Sansa reunite, but I may just include that in another chatpter.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your patience and understanding with me. Hopefully we'll have this wrapped up in the next month or two. 
> 
> Ave atque vale.


End file.
